Kyrie shaved broad swathes off the gyro beef roast rotating on its vertical metal spike, and turned her back to the counter and the customers, to eat with the voracious appetite a recent shift brought on.
The diner had become packed, while she was gone—every table filled, even the table at which she'd first seated Conan. A couple was squeezed together into the too-small booth, cooing and billing and holding warm cups. Keith was working the grill like a pro, though Kyrie noted that he sometimes let things go a little too long, and the edges of omelets were often brown as Tom didn't allow them to be, and the bacon seemed full of burnt crunchy bits. And he was clearly late with the orders.
However, to do Keith justice, that last might not be so much his fault as Conan's. The new waiter, newly returned amid the tables of the packed diner looked much like a fly that had hit the window pane once too many times. He was trying to serve everyone clamoring for his attention and seemed completely lost. That he only had one good arm to hold the serving tray didn't help, as his other arm, at best, helped stabilize things, but could not help with the weight, which meant he carried far less per trip out to the tables than she normally did. The orders were piled on the counter. As Keith turned and put another one down and called out, "Table 23," he seemed to realize the futility of it, saying, "Oh, never mind," and putting five or six orders on a tray, he rushed out to distribute the platters, far faster than Conan seemed able to.
"That little rat you guys hired left me alone while you were gone," Keith said. "I don't know where he went but . . ."
"Don't worry about it," Kyrie said. "He went to help us. We know where he was."
Keith raised his shoulder sulkily, but didn't say anything for a while, till he said sheepishly, "I've kept people quiet," as he returned in what seemed like seconds, to tend to the grill, "by giving them free hot chocolate. I hope that's okay."
"It's fine," Kyrie said.
"Also, of course, there's nothing else open today which helped keep them here."
Kyrie took the point, and having finished a plate of gyro meat, she put the plate with the others collected from tables, and reached under the counter for her apron, intending to go out to clear the backlog as fast as possible. Only her hands, thrust under the counter, met with something like sharp little needles. On her pulling the hands back, the needles withdrew, only to stick her again when she reached out once more, only much less further in than before. "What the—?" she said, reaching out.
"Oh, that's Not Dinner," Keith said, flipping a burger.
"What?" she asked, as she knelt to look in the dark shelf where they kept folded aprons to the left and the time sheets to the right. Golden eyes sparkled back at her, and she looked closer, to make out a little orange ball of fluff making his way very fast to lay possessively atop the time sheets. "It's a kitten."
"Yeah," Keith said. "Not Dinner."
"I don't have the slightest intention of eating him," Kyrie said, upset, as she reached in and managed to retrieve the apron before the avenging claws got her. "You know you can't have your pet here. We're not allowed to have animals, except service animals, on the premises."
"He's not my pet."
Kyrie took a deep breath, deciding everyone had gone mad, and Keith right now was representative of everyone. What on earth could he mean? That the diner was suffering an infestation of cats, like some places had sudden infestations of rats? It didn't bear probing, not now. Grabbing a tray and filling it with orders, and picking up the coffee pot for warmups, she started among the tables, clearing up the backlog.
Many regulars looked happy to see her, and other people just looked happy to get their orders at last. In a few minutes, she had the main of it taken care of and, having directed Conan to start bussing newly emptied tables, returned to fill the dishwasher, restart the coffee, and pursue the interesting matter of a sudden plague of kittens.
Before she could, though, and while she was bent over the dishwasher, filling it with dirty plates, Tom and Rafiel came in, and Tom made an exclamation of distress and touched Kyrie's arm. "Kyrie, where's Old Joe?"
She looked up. "I don't know. Where was he?"
"I left him in booth number five."
"Well, he wasn't here when I came in," she said.
Tom swore under his breath and, at her startled look, said, "Not your fault. He must have gone alligator again. I hope he's not going to go after one of the customers in the parking lot. And I hope we find him, because we need to talk to him."
As he spoke, Tom reached over the grill, as Keith pulled a stack of cooked burgers aside and said, "I made these for you. I figured you'd need them."
"Great thought. Thanks," Tom said, grabbing the burgers and eating one after the other, like a kid with candy. "I'll take over the grill in a moment."
"I gave Not Dinner some milk and a few pieces of hamburger," Keith added.
"Not . . . oh. The kitten," Tom said. "Good."
Kyrie noted that Tom seemed to know about the kitten. In fact, she would bet the kitten was Tom's. Tom and his strays! Meanwhile, Rafiel had gone out the back door. He returned in a moment, snow glinting in his hair. "He's not out back, Tom. I can't find him. There's no trail I can see."